


the daughter of denmark

by frenchforbird



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Denmark - Freeform, Family, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Multi, Shakespeare, and intensly examining photos from the kronborg castle, detailed setting, everyone is a little gay, everyone is kinda gay au, hamlet is a girl au, horatio is a girl au, i spend half of the time writing this, looking up the details of the denmark monarchy, looking up the duchys of denmark, rosencrantz and guildenstern are girls, this is based off of a hamlet i played this year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchforbird/pseuds/frenchforbird
Summary: Hamlet. The sole daughter of the royal family, and heir apparent to the throne. Everyone knows her name-- but who was she, before Wittenberg, before the tragedy we all know so well?A semi-chronological and non-canonical depiction of the life of Hamlet, before everything went to shit. Characters are based around interpretations of the show in a recent production of Hamlet that I was a part of.





	the daughter of denmark

I.

The proud spires of Elsinore shone brightly in the distance as Hamlet rode her horse along the river, jeering at the figure alongside her. She only had to beat him to the abandoned gazebo, and she would win. What she would win mattered not-- her pride would be satisfied regardless of any other reward. This race was a weekly occurrence. Her father promised they would no longer have to race once she reached the clearing first. It had been nearly four years since they began, and she’d yet to beat him. 

“Come on, don’t you dare go easy on me!”

The race started in the castle courtyard, following the roads into the city. They’d duck into alleyways and ride through small ponds, weaving through the dwindling crowds of the afternoon until they met up again at the river. It was a gorgeous river, running along the borders of bountiful farms and fields, that lead into the woods she could see from her bedroom window. Deep within stood a gazebo, crumbling under the wear of time, and that was where they ended their race.

They were neck and neck when they entered the thicket, Hamlet losing sight of her father. They both had their own paths through the trees, beaten into the ground over years of racing. The moment the hoofbeats of his horse faded, Hamlet slowed to a stop, breathing hard. The air in the thicket was old and rusty, dust catching the sun’s light. It felt like a place out of time.

Hamlet was a competitive person. She was desperate to outshine anyone she was pitted against-- with one exception. When these races began, she had been so desperate from them to end. Her father promised her that, the day that she reached the gazebo before him, they would never have to even think about racing ever again. For the first year of the racing, Hamlet clung to this promise like it was her salvation. She wasn’t that good at riding horses, and her horse was very slow to warm up to anyone riding them. Being beaten, week after week, was not enjoyable in the least. By the second year, however, she was beginning to warm up to the situation. The alternative, as her mother so dutifully promised her, was to work on improving her needlepoint skills. Upon reaching the third year, Hamlet was so attached to her father that she could not imagine a week without the race. She was sure she could beat him, but then the tradition would be over-- the true meaning of it would hold nothing.

And so, for just long enough that it would be believable, Hamlet would hold her horse steady, catching her breath, while counting to seventy. She would burst into the clearing with her chest heaving and her face flushed, give an overdramatic groan of disappointment at the sight of her father, and fling herself off of her horse to join him on the marble bench. 

“I could have sworn I was going to beat you,” she said, holding out her hand for the waterskin that he passed over. 

“You have a long while to go before being Queen, then.” He smiled at her questioning look. “A true ruler never swears upon what they know is false.”

“Oh!” Hamlet laughed sharply, rolling her eyes. “Have you so little faith in me, good father?”

“I never said such a thing!” Hamlet’s father looked at her with such offense in his aspect that she could not help but let the laughter wash over herself. 

They spent the fading afternoon in that clearing, Hamlet exploring it as if it had been her first time laying eyes upon on the ancient place. Her father rested by his horse, eyes lidded with fatigue. He was old, Hamlet realized as she watched him, perched in a tree. He had fought countless battles in his youth. The battle against Fortinbras was nearly his death, and ended his fighting years for good. Just as well, Hamlet supposed. She needed a father, and her mother needed a husband. 

“We should be heading back,” she said into the windy silence. Her father looked up at her. He said nothing, for a few breaths, then his stern and weathered face broke into a smile.

“You will be an _excellent_ queen, Hamlet.”


End file.
